


Hiring a Consultant

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Diogenes Club, Hiring, How did Mycroft and Greg meet?, Sherlock Holmes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-05
Updated: 2012-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-04 21:20:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/398320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade knows a good man when he sees one. But he also knows a good consultant who might not be so good. And of course Mycroft is not unaware of a person's uses. He can tell a hawk from a handsaw. This is just my latest attempt to get a handle on how these two fell in with each other.</p><p>I wrote this for a prompt, and then never heard back about it, so I'm just going to post it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiring a Consultant

Greg found the place easily enough. He’d expected something more...subtle. And true, it didn’t have a neon sign out front. It matched the character of the other houses in the row. It was just three times the size, on the end of the street. The name was on a discreet brass plate, as well as the number 10 on the front pillar, and there was no way he could pretend he hadn’t found the place. 

He still didn’t know how he was going to phrase it. He wasn’t sure why he was here. Did he have to ask permission? But they were all adults. Would it not seem insulting to ask the man’s older brother if he could provide voluntary non-official assistance? It was similar to having community support officers, really. Ordinary civilians who got a bit of special training and spent some of their free time helping the police keep the peace. It was just that in this case there would be no training, no uniform, and it would be on an on-call basis. Or something.

But if he didn’t ask... Greg patted his pockets, located cigarettes and lighter, and ducked under the club’s portico to light up. It was just an excuse, he knew. And he didn’t really need the nicotine. He’d been on the medication for a week now, and it seemed to make it easier. But right now, he needed an excuse. He had thought he’d figure it out on the way here. He hadn’t. No one would really question someone having a quick fag while waiting for the rain to stop, though, would they?

He took a deep drag, and stared stupidly at the passing cars. There weren’t many. It was a quiet street. Of course it would be - who would start a private club with a strict rule of silence in a noisy neighbourhood? Stupid, stupid distractions. Back to the point - what was he going to say?

Okay, so it sounded daft. He could apologise for sounding daft, though. What was the worst that could happen? If he asked and the answer was ‘yes, of course, why did you even ask?’ then he could apologise and better safe and sorry. If the answer was no, then it was a damned good thing he had asked. If he didn’t ask, and the answer was yes, no harm done. If he didn’t ask and the answer was no... He couldn’t even begin to imagine the depth of shit he might be in. They’d have to invent a new kind of submersible just to find his body.

That wasn’t entirely true, though. If he asked, the answer could just as likely be that it was wrong to even ask. Maybe it would mean that he wasn’t clever enough to have seen something, and had marked himself as incompetent. It could mark him as too nervous, lacking courage in his convictions. Maybe he was supposed to know the answer himself, and if he had to ask, then he was the wrong sort of person.

His cigarette was down to the filter. He frowned at it, then flicked it into a puddle, hearing it sizzle and hiss. He could spend hours out here, wondering. But if it came down to the courage of his convictions, well, at least he had that. He turned around, took a deep breath, brushed the worst of the damp off his coat along with the worst of the smoke, and went in.

He kept his footsteps as quiet as he possibly could, making his way through the eerie, silent rooms to the large wood door. Only a few of the members seemed to be asleep, but none of them were below 50, he suspected. A lot of grey hair, spectacles, and newspapers. No one met his eyes as he passed. No one even twitched, as far as he could see. It was a bit like being a ghost, and he found himself tensing, his anger rising out of sheer defensiveness. As if they were ignoring him, personally.

He didn’t knock on the door - pointless, as any response would have been inaudible. He turned the knob slowly, however, and edged the door open with as much deference as he could. He stuck his head around the edge, and found himself the center of the attention of Mycroft Holmes. He was no less intimidating now. Taller than Greg, his suit immaculately tailored and pressed, his tie alone costing more than everything Greg was wearing, combined. One hand lifted, palm up, and his fingers flexed, drawing Greg further into the room so he could close the door behind him.

“Thank you for observing the club etiquette. You may speak freely in here.”

“The place is so quiet. You don’t find that at all creepy?”

Mycroft smiled, his hands in his pockets as he moved casually over to a drinks trolley. “May I offer you something?”

“Uh, no, I’m fine, thanks.”

“You’re no longer on duty, Inspector. There’s a rather fine single malt on offer, if you like them peaty.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve tasted it.”

“That I’m not on duty?” Greg pressed.

“The same way that I know you’ve decided to ask me a question.”

Greg froze, halfway across the carpet to one of the two chairs facing each other in the center of the room. He took a breath and straightened, thinking quickly. “You’ve been watching me. Spying on me?”

Mycroft turned to face him, holding a tumbler with a finger of pale yellow liquor swinging against the cut-glass sides. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”

“Not with the drink, no.”

“Clever answer.” Mycroft strolled around and took one of the chairs. “Please.” He gestured to the other.

Greg moved slowly, still thinking it through. “You have been watching me.”

Mycroft tipped his head. “Of course.”

He had to laugh. He hadn’t expected that. “Spy on me, and then admit it?”

“Of course,” Mycroft repeated. He wasn’t pretending to be confused, but Greg saw he was still a few steps ahead of whatever was going through Greg’s mind. 

“You’re not ashamed of it. You think that’s reasonable. So you know why I’m here.”

“I think perhaps I shall wait until you come to the non-rhetorical portion of the conversation.” He set his glass on the table to his left.

“No, I think that’s all I needed,” Greg said suddenly. “Thank you very much. Have a pleasant evening.” He turned back to the door, but only made it three steps before Mycroft spoke.

“He said that you were dull. He was wrong.”

Greg smiled fiercely, his back hiding the expression, and he schooled his face to something more serious before turning. “How often does that happen?”

“Occasionally. Very rarely, when he’s paying attention. Which he will do, when something interests him. If something rouses his curiosity, he will pursue it, and worry at it like a mongoose with a cobra.”

“Is that a problem?”

“You tell me.” Mycroft raised his head, his eyes narrowing slightly.

There was a pause. Greg thought for a long moment before side-stepping. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t ask him?”

Mycroft relaxed again, turning back to his glass with a shrug. “That is not my decision. You know your superiors and their tolerance for the unorthodox. And my brother is nothing if not unorthodox.”

“Doesn’t even look that Jewish.”

This got him another pointed look, which turned into an intense scrutiny. The blue eyes of the man flicked over the length of him as if reading a book, checking things off. “And of course there is the issue of his drug use,” he said, as if Greg hadn’t spoken. “He has refused rehab in the past, but then I understand family are often unsuccessful in these things.”

“Depends on the family. You’re not close?”

A raised eyebrow. “Seven years. And a yawning chasm, in terms of personality.”

“But not intellect.”

“I couldn’t say.”

“You won’t, you mean,” Greg corrected. “Can you tell me any reason that I shouldn’t hire him?”

“You won’t be able to,” Mycroft shot back. “He lacks discipline, and is easily bored. You’d do better to bring him any cases which are out of the ordinary, or present particular difficulties for your team. If he thinks you’re going to waste his time on something someone else could handle, he’ll lose interest.”

“Right. So I can be dull, as long as my work isn’t.”

“Precisely. And Detective Inspector, I would greatly appreciate it if you remained dull. I should very much like it if my brother took up something as useful as this. He won’t, though, if he finds out that we have colluded against him.”

“What do you mean, ‘against him’? If he says he’s not interested, I’m not going to force him.”

“I beg your pardon. We don’t get on, you see. If he suspects that I approve, or possibly even that we’ve spoken about him, he will go out of his way to oppose it. You won’t have a hope of interesting him in anything.”

“Right. Any other reasons I should keep our meeting a secret?”

Mycroft lifted his glass toward Greg in a salute, and smiled briskly. “Thank you for stopping. If you get lost on your way out, please remember not to ask anyone for directions.”


End file.
